


It's Bloody and Raw, but I Swear It Is Sweet

by Tamburlaine



Series: For Reasons Wretched and Divine [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bonnie & Clyde, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4505181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamburlaine/pseuds/Tamburlaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Back at the bar, Octavia said she was happy for me. Said we look happy”, Bellamy said once their breathing had returned to normal. Clarke smiled and looked up at him.<br/>“We are”, she answered. He nodded and kissed her, tightened his grip for a moment. A hug within an embrace. Clarke closed her eyes and listened to the steady beating of his heart, the only lullaby she knew. The only thing that soothed her.</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy is haunted by his demons and Clarke swears to do all that is in her power to help him. Together, they leave on a different kind of road trip through America. Featuring murder, FBI agents and old acquintances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adding Shadows to the Walls of the Cave

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read without reading part one, but then you're missing out on all the pre-relationship stuff.
> 
> Work title from Hozier's 'Angel of Sweet Death and the Codeine Scene'.
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier's 'Sedated', which is the theme song for this part of the series. Listen to it and you'll get in the right mood.
> 
> Beta'd by my irreplaceable Laura.

Nobody visited dives like this, not unless they had stumbled in one night by accident and consequently gotten addicted to the lethargic atmosphere. Shadows overpowered the weak lights, the music was just another patron with a dejected look in its eyes and holes in its shoes. No questions were asked as men and women with downcast eyes sipped their lukewarm beers.

A man was sitting at the bar. He used to be a high school teacher; now he was an alcoholic with a criminal record instead of a job. He was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the young woman who entered the bar until she sat down next to him. Surprised, he looked up. This was not a place for a woman like that. She stood out like the character in a red jacket in an otherwise black and white movie. Bright, blonde hair, luminous skin and a neat dress underneath an expensive trench coat.

“You lost, girl?” he asked, voice gruff from disuse. She turned to him, and the man met her blue eyes. There was something in those eyes that made him straighten his back. She nodded.

“Yeah. I must have taken the wrong turn somewhere. I just came in to see if I could borrow the phone, my battery ran out”, she explained. The man nodded and turned away. If she had been younger, he would have followed her out, taken her in the back alley. But her chin was that of a woman's, as was her body. The man had no interest in such things.

The woman made her call and left. The bar returned to its slumber.

It was past midnight when the man stumbled outside. He headed for the back alley, steady fingers undoing his pants as he walked. Anyone would prefer the cold wall to the stench of vomit, piss and shit in the bathrooms within. With a grunt he relieved himself on the ground, one hand on the wall for balance.

As he turned towards the main street, the man put a cigarette in his mouth and patted his pockets in search of a lighter, finding them empty for nothing but holes. He cursed and already longed for another drink.

“Need a light?”

The man looked up. Despite the darkness in the alley he could make out the silhouette of a man approaching him. Broad shouldered, with the energy of the young and the power of the healthy in his step, the stranger walked up to him and offered a lighter. The man accepted it and lit his cigarette, catching sight of black curls and high cheekbones in the flicker of the flame.

“Thanks.” The man took a drag; the smoke left his mouth with a satisfied sigh. He opened his mouth, yet undecided upon what he would say, when the stranger took a step back and threw his fist forward. It hit the man in his cheek, effectively knocking the words back down his throat. He stumbled and the stranger advanced, dealing out hits with efficiency born out of training.

The man from the bar fell down on the ground, the pain of hitting the hard ground barely registering in his battered body. In that moment he got some respite and noticed a woman, standing at the mouth of the alley. He recognized her from the bar, now painted red from the blood in his eyes. He made to call out for help, then realized there would be none. She watched coldly, stance determined. He could have pictured her a statue, but no statue ever had eyes so lifelike. So full of fierce protection and love. The man knew it wasn't for him.

Then the stranger was on him again and –

  
  


_Some months earlier_

Clarke awoke with a start and an uneasy feeling in her gut. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light in the room; a few heartbeats before she could distinguish the shapes of various furniture: a night stand and a closet, the door and the blinders in front of the small window.

Everything was at peace but the man sleeping next to her.

Usually Bellamy's nightmares had him trashing in the bed until he woke up with a cut-off scream. Clarke hated those, but at least they were over relatively fast. But then there were some nights, nights like this one, when Bellamy didn't wake up; didn't punch at ghosts in the dark. Instead he lay completely still, every muscle in his body wound up tight and his teeth clenched together.

Clarke sat up and gently shook his shoulder, finding his skin clammy under her touch. The sheets under him were soaked with sweat. There was no reaction. Clarke shook him harder with a determined frown. He jerked awake, chest rising with laboured breaths and eyes searching the room, panicked, until they landed on Clarke.

“It's alright, Bell, you're safe. You're in our apartment, our bed, with me. You're safe”, said Clarke. Carefully, so as not to spook him, she brushed back the black curls from where the sweat had plastered them to his forehead. The words and the touch seemed to calm him down: Bellamy took a deep breath, let it out and sat up.

“I'm sorry I woke you up”, he muttered and pressed a hand to his eyes. Clarke shook her head though he couldn't see it.

“It's alright. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I need to change the sheets and take a shower”, Bellamy answered and got up. Clarke knew not to be offended; they had been through this before.

“I'll go make us some tea.” The tea had been an impulse purchase of hers, a few weeks after she moved to Pittsburgh. It claimed to be relaxing, _'soothes the body and the mind'_ , and Clarke had been desperate. She wasn't sure whether it actually helped, but at least waiting for the drink to cool gave them both a few minutes of peace.

With the steaming mugs in her hand, Clarke returned upstairs and sat down on the remade bed, waiting for Bellamy to get out of the shower. He took his time, washing off more than just sweat. Then the shower was turned off and Clarke listened to the soft pad of his feet against the carpet. A dip in the bed, and Bellamy was beside Clarke, back against the headboard. She handed him the tea and breathed in the steam from her own. It smelled of lavender and vanilla. Soothing.

“I'm sorry”, Bellamy said again. His voice was weary. In an effort to offer comfort, Clarke put a hand on his thigh. They drank their teas in quiet. It felt almost like a ritual, an event that reoccurred every night. The calm after the storm in the confines of their bed.

They fell asleep when the tea was gone. Clarke was curled up around Bellamy, able to gather him in her arms despite her smaller size. The cover was tightly tucked around their feet. A few hours later the alarm clock rang and a new day started. Neither mentioned the nightmare; Bellamy took the cups with him as he went downstairs.

  
  


It had been two months since Clarke moved to Pittsburgh. Now, she worked at an art gallery of all places. The owner, Callie Cartwig, was a fair and strict boss, who appreciated Clarke's knowledge of art and no-nonsense personality. Bellamy bought her a sketching book and charcoals as a congratulatory gift. Much to her surprise, Clarke was finding that she enjoyed the work. Before, there had been nothing but a doctor's coat in her future.

Her day at the art gallery flew by. Callie liked to personally greet the few customers that stepped in, so Clarke was mostly in the back, with either a paper or the phone, or both, in her hand. It was almost time for her lunch break when Callie came up to her with a small smile on her lips.

“There is a very handsome man asking for you in the gallery”, she said and picked up one of the lists Clarke had been going through during the last hours. “If I were you, I'd take my break now.”

“Thank you, Ms Cartwig. I'll finish these when I get back.” Callie shooed her away before picking up the phone and turning back to the paper in her hand. Clarke grabbed her coat and rushed to the gallery. Bellamy was standing by one of the bigger paintings, hands clasped behind his back and feet apart, as if he was standing in an army line-up. Clarke smiled and felt her heart jump: she was quite sure she shouldn't be getting butterflies in her stomach any more at the sight of him. Love was peaceful, Abby used to tell her. It was like coming home. For Clarke, it wasn't like that. It was joy, vivid colours and adrenaline pulsing in her veins.

Perhaps they would crash and burn. Those had been Abby's words as well.

“Hey, handsome”, Clarke greeted and sidled up to Bellamy. He glanced at her with a wide smile. He took her hand; their fingers intertwined.

“This one's new”, he commented and looked back at the painting. They had gotten it a few days ago: the artist was an up-and-comer whose style had captured Callie's eye at a college art exhibit. On a black canvas, the white silhouettes of a man and a woman stood captured in an embrace. The bottom of the canvas was riddled with bullet holes.

“Do you like it?” Clarke asked and leaned against his side.

Bellamy nodded. “It's a bit sad, isn't it? They died in the end, didn't they?”

“Yeah. But they died together.” Clarke gazed up at the lovers, admired the way the artist had managed to capture so much emotion in their still expressions. She recognized it, the tenderness in their eyes, as she glanced at the man standing next to her.

They ate lunch at the sushi place a few doors down that Clarke loved and Bellamy tolerated. He told her that Octavia had called and they were going out for drinks to the bar her boyfriend worked at. Clarke was invited as well. Having eaten, they said good bye on the side walk. Bellamy needed to get back to the book store, but still made no hurry to stop kissing her. Clarke watched his retreating back until he glanced over his shoulder. They shared a smile before he turned the corner.

When she returned to the gallery, a customer was studying the painting of Bonnie and Clyde.

  
  


_Ricky's_ was a shadowy pub, always busy yet cleaner than the street it was on. It was only a few blocks away from Bellamy and Clarke's apartment, the reason the siblings had found themselves in it for the first time. Lincoln had been tending the bar that night. He was the reason Octavia had returned.

It was a little past eight when Clarke and Bellamy arrived. They made their way to a booth at the back, kept empty by the small  _reserved_ note on the table. It only took a minute for Octavia to hurry over from the counter with three beers in her hands and a wide smile on her face. She gave her brother a hard hug. It was clear that they missed each other now that they weren't living together anymore.

“How have you been?” Octavia asked once she had settled down. Bellamy recounted the last few weeks with such a convincing smile that even Clarke almost forgot the details he left out: the nightmares and flashbacks, the long hours at the gym, the evenings he sat in front of a television that wasn't on, staring at the black screen. Clarke would get him to bed with her after midnight, only to wake up a few hours later to find him in the kitchen. When she reached out for him, he would avoid her touch.

“... yeah. Nothing to complain about really”, Bellamy finished and drained half his beer.

“You don't look like it”, said Octavia. “Honestly, you look like shit, Bell.” Octavia turned her sharp eyes towards Clarke. “What's up, Clarke?” Underneath the table, a calloused hand grabbed hers. Bellamy squeezed tightly. Words were not needed to convey the message: _“Don't worry her. Please.”_

“Hey guys.”

Lincoln was a nice man. Of course, Bellamy had disapproved of him in the beginning. He had had many rows with Octavia about mysterious strangers (“ _you_ were a mysterious stranger to Clarke!”), tattoos (“you have fucking  _gang_ tattoos!)” and not jumping head first into anything (“now you're just talking bullshit”). Two weeks before Clarke moved in, Octavia moved out. Eventually Bellamy relented. He hadn't given his blessing yet, but neither Octavia nor Lincoln were looking for it.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lincoln sat gingerly down beside his girlfriend, who nodded at the same time as her brother shook his head.

“How's the bar, Linc?” Clarke asked. Bellamy's hand was in a death grip around hers, but the pressure lessened once Lincoln started talking. Though Octavia continued to throw concerned glances at her brother, nobody tried to steer the conversation back on its original path.

  
  


“How has work been? Is Indra still too harsh?”

“She isn't _too_ harsh, Bell. She just wants me to do my job properly.”

Clarke could tell Bellamy didn't agree. Octavia should do greater things than wash dishes, even if it was for one of the best chefs in Pittsburgh. Clarke placed a hand on Bellamy's thigh to stop the argument before it started. He glanced at her quickly and, to everyone's surprise, backed off.

“Alright. But I still think you should be allowed to touch the food”, he grumbled and emptied the last of his beer. Octavia rolled her eyes.

“One year washing dishes for her and I can get a job cooking in any smaller restaurant”.

It was true. All in all, Octavia was doing good by herself: a job, an apartment, a dedicated boyfriend. Sipping on her drink, Clarke figured Bellamy was being difficult not because he disapproved, but because he felt useless. Just as he had been hers, Octavia had been the only stable thing in his life. The fear of losing her must be overwhelming.

“I'm going to get another round”, Clarke said and stood up now that the crisis was averted. The bar had filled up during the couple of hours since they arrived. The counter was lined with people and all tables were full; even the dance floor was starting to get crowded. Clarke made her way to the end of the counter and caught the bartender's eye. Thanks to Lincoln, they no longer had to wait patiently in line.

A few minutes and a tray with their drinks was handed to Clarke, who tipped generously and ignored the evil looks she was getting. Clarke wasn't particularly fond of the clientele at  _Ricky's_ . The people she used to be surrounded by were more polite and less loud.

Not to be the exception to the rule, a group of men in their late twenties, early thirties, were downing shots at a scary pace. The colourful curses they shouted out would have made Abby scandalized, Clarke mused as she walked past the group.

“Hey, cutie, why don't you join us for a moment?” one of the men shouted. Clarke continued, not sparing him a glance. “C'mon, babe, you know you want to.” Bellamy was looking at her with a crease in his forehead. Clarke met his eyes and shook her head and her man stayed in his seat.

“I can take care of them myself, you know”, she said once she had sat down.

“I do”, he answered with a small smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Clarke leaned into his side, happy for the moment. There, in the dim bar, with friends as a distraction, it was easy to forget about the otherwise omnipresent worry. The conversation went in familiar cycles and Clarke tuned most of it out, preferring to focus on the weight of the arm around her shoulder, the finger stroking the skin below her short sleeve. Their thighs were pressed together and Clarke, not the pristine princess everybody took her for, wondered whether she would manage to sneak Bellamy in to one of the girls' toilets.

Still keeping her eyes on Octavia, who was recounting … something that had happened at work earlier, Clarke placed her hand on Bellamy's thigh. The muscle underneath her palm tensed as her hand strayed further up.

“What are you doing?” Bellamy whispered, his breath warm against Clarke's ear. With a mischievous smile, Clarke searched for his ear, but instead of answering, she bit it lightly. It got the point across.

“We'll be right back”, Bellamy said to the couple across the table as they stood. Octavia threw her hands in the air, but when Clarke glanced back at them she winked at her. Octavia wasn't the kind of sister to begrudge her brother a quick fuck in the toilets if it cheered him up.

Clarke pulled Bellamy closer to her as they headed towards the toilets. Her cheeks were flushed, she knew, and it wasn't solely because of the alcohol. Above the music, they could hear Octavia calling after them. With a quick smile, Bellamy let go of Clarke's hand and returned to the table.

“If he won't entertain you, I will.” It was one of the men from earlier, one of the loudmouths, who had gotten enough liquid courage to walk up to her. His feet were steady, as was the hand he presumptuously placed on her shoulder. Clarke's skin crawled as his friends hooted and leered at her from their table.

“Excuse you”, Clarke said, “but would you mind backing off?” Her polite words contrasted the harsh tone in her voice. She removed his hand, but the man went nowhere.

“Don't be so rude, honey. I'll take good care of you”, he said and stepped closer. Clarke would not give him an inch. His eyes slipped down to her breasts and he reached out his hand again. “C'mon, I know what good girls like you need...” Clarke's patience was running out. “... A good, hard fucking”.

Clarke slapped him. Her hand burned with the force of it and his head snapped back. Clarke turned around, done with the conversation. She pushed past a few patrons and though the man cursed after her, he didn't follow. Having walked to the counter, she stopped to wait for Bellamy. She glanced at the man who was now holding his cheek, fuming at his laughing friends.

Bellamy had noticed the exchange. Clarke could see it from the rigid set of his shoulders, even from across the bar. He left Octavia and Lincoln, thankfully headed towards her. On his way Bellamy passed the man who was still complaining and bumped into his shoulder hard enough to make the man stumble. Clarke could only see, not hear, as the man said something to Bellamy, who turned around and punched the man without answering.

At this point the man's friends stopped laughing. Clarke screamed his name, but Bellamy didn't turn away. Instead he took on the next guy that rushed at him. The noise level in the bar rose immediately as the fight escalated. One of the men managed to push Bellamy back and he stumbled over a table, taking a punch before dealing one out himself.

Clarke pushed her way through the crowd that suddenly felt thick and unmovable. Someone spilled beer on her, but Clarke ignored the wetness on her back as she stumbled into the chaos. Lincoln had been faster, but he was occupied with trying to get Octavia away. Clarke caught sight of her, swinging a bottle at one of the men trying to get a hold of Bellamy.

The original asshole was already on the ground. Bellamy sat on top of him, dealing out punches that made blood splatter on the floor. The man underneath him was barely conscious. Clarke ran over to him and tried to grab his arm, but she was shrugged off. Clarke saw no choice: she put an arm around his throat from behind and squeezed. The punches stopped and his hands came instead up to grab at her arm.

“Bellamy, stop.”

Clarke could feel his pulse, beating heavy and hard in his throat. She continued to whisper the order, pulled him away from the whimpering man. Only now did she notice that the music had been shut off and the lights were on. The bouncer and the bartender were pulling apart the last fighters, men who had had no share in the original confrontation. Lincoln was holding Octavia back. She had eyes only for her brother.

Somebody shouted to call for an ambulance. It was so quiet, Clarke realized at the back of her head, she could hear the whispers from the people still at their tables. She pulled Bellamy to his feet and grabbed his chin.

“We need to leave”, she said and held his eyes until he nodded. The bouncer tried to stop them, but Lincoln stepped in between. Octavia gave Clarke a sharp look. She nodded in return and walked out the door with hurried steps. Her grip on Bellamy's hand was slippery with blood.

They didn't stop until they were at their apartment. Clarke sat Bellamy down at the kitchen table and retrieved the first aid kit she kept in their bathroom. He let her examine him, took off his shirt when she ordered him to and kept quiet when she applied disinfectant to his bleeding knuckles.

The beginnings of a bruise in his side that hinted at a fractured rib; one black eye; knuckles cracked open. Clarke sat down on her heels in front of him and let out a deep breath. Bellamy met her eyes, but the look he gave her was unreadable.

“Does it hurt when you breathe? Are you feeling dizzy, nauseous?” Clarke asked. Bellamy shook his head. Clarke knew it couldn't be the complete truth, but she didn't think there was a need to go to the hospital. “You didn't have to do that.”

“I know.” His answer was so quiet Clarke would have missed it if her whole focus wasn't on him. His eyes flickered away, but returned to hers when he continued. “I wanted to.” Clarke stood up and turned around. She often forgot that there were articles that called Bellamy a dangerous criminal. They weren't completely wrong.

“Do you want some tea?” Soothing.

“No. I think I want to go to bed. If that's alright?” Clarke smiled, nodded without turning around.

“Yeah, sure.”

  
  


Clarke undressed without saying a word and idly wondered whether the man had survived. Octavia would know. As Clarke pulled back the covers she mulled over her indifference. The man had been a brute, a stranger. Why should she care if he got a few teeth knocked out?

Bellamy was lying on his back. Clarke traced a finger over his chest; watching him watch it. Her finger travelled around each nipple, then between his pectorals, across the muscles in his stomach and lower, disappearing beneath the blanket.

“Clarke...” Bellamy whispered, his eyes big as he watched her.

“Shh...” She worked him quickly to hardness. The sheets rustled softly as Clarke sat up. She pushed the covers down and stretched one leg over Bellamy, pushing her clit against his dick. He let out a breath and Clarke glanced up, realized he had been holding it. Slowly, she straightened and got on her knees, grabbed his dick and placed it at her entrance. With a smile she sank down, then stilled.

They had forgotten to pull down the curtains. A beam of moonlight had found its way into their bed, stretching across Bellamy's chest. His skin shone with it, dark and darker where bruises were starting to bloom.

“Don't move”, Clarke whispered and pulled up, sank down. The air in the room was cool, fresh against her skin, a lovely contrast to the heat where skin touched skin. They breathed in sync and Clarke looked for his left hand. She leaned against it as she increased her speed, squeezed his fingers as hard as she could. Bellamy whispered her name and Clarke leaned down, pressed her lips to his. The new angle lit stars in her groin.

She didn't know how long she rode him, slowing down when Bellamy's breathing sped up. When she came, the moonlight was playing with Bellamy's hair, painting it silver. Clarke moaned, one long continuous sound. Her chest expanded with every heavy breath. The skin on her arms had goose bumps, her back sweaty.

Clarke had closed her eyes, but now she opened them and continued her movement, hips rolling softly as she worked Bellamy to an orgasm. She studied his face as the orgasm washed over him: the way he bit his lip, screwed his eyes shut. It looked almost painful.

Clarke kissed him, something possessive crawling in her chest she wasn't familiar with. They pushed the covers to the floor, both too hot to stand them. Still, Clarke lay against his side, the one that wasn't bruised, one arm around him. He held her, his lips in her hair.

“Back at the bar, Octavia said she was happy for me. Said we look happy”, Bellamy said once their breathing had returned to normal. Clarke smiled and looked up at him.

“We are”, she answered. He nodded and kissed her, tightened his grip for a moment. A hug within an embrace. Clarke closed her eyes and listened to the steady beating of his heart, the only lullaby she knew. The only thing that soothed her.

It felt almost surreal to wake up the following morning, not to a nightmare, but the sun on her face. Beside her, Bellamy still slept peacefully.

  
  


_Now_

The snap of the neck prompted Clarke forward. She reached for Bellamy, touched her hand to his shoulder. He stilled, chest heaving, and looked up at her. Clarke took his bloodied hand and they walked away, not sparing a further thought to the body they left behind.

The alley returned to its slumber.


	2. Innocence Died Screaming (Honey, Ask Me, I should Know)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A roadtrip of sorts. Wherein there is a sweaty agent, an illegal gun and an unexpected face from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Hozier's From Eden.

The road crossed through fields, straight as far as the eye could see. A train sped by. A man stepped out of the post office across the road. Kane stood with the motel at his back and wondered whether the car disappearing behind the trees further away was that of Bellamy and Clarke's. Probably not.

Even standing still, Kane was sweating. It was late May, the temperature was climbing each day and the air turning more humid with it. Not a cloud in the sky. Kane's dress shirt clung to his armpits and back. He would have given anything for a shower. Jaha maintained they were closer than ever to catching Bellamy and Clarke, which meant that there was no time for frivolous luxuries such as showers.

Seven weeks spent tracking the couple across state lines. Kane wasn't even sure if they had managed to find all the bodies Bellamy and Clarke left in their wake. All the victims had died close to bars, beaten to death. Kane had spent the first two weeks going over every single bar fight in Pittsburgh, trying to determine whether Bellamy had been the assailant. This far there had been no evidence that Clarke was involved. Yet she had disappeared as well. Kane could only assume she was an accomplice.

Kane stepped inside the motel and was immediately hit by a wave of cool air. The air conditioner whirred in the background and besides Jaha and the receptionist, the lobby was empty. Kane walked up to his partner, adopting a more professional stance.

With Bellamy's disappearance, Kane was pulled out of his other assignments and put on hunting duty. He had been surprised when agent Jaha volunteered to join him. Though a familiar face, Kane had never worked closely with him before. Jaha had worked as an undercover agent until his cover was blown and he was shot. After the near death experience, Jaha kept mainly to office work. The reason he wished to get back on the field was Clarke Griffin.  Apparently Jaha was an old acquaintance of her mother's: their children had played together decades ago.

There seemed to be no destination for Bellamy and Clarke's road trip, which made following them even harder. In Atlanta they had been caught on a security camera. Afte r t hat the murderous couple disappeared again, with Kane and Jaha once again going through every report of bar fights ending in fatality. They found nothing conclusive until a body showed up in Nashville, with witnesses placing Bellamy and Clarke at the scene of the crime. From there Kane and Jaha had managed to follow them to Memphis, where they almost lost the trail again. If it hadn't been for a call from a motel thirty minutes down route 61, they would have been left with nothing once more.

“... paid with cash, tipped well she did too, bless her heart. Ain't got nothing to complain about. Came and went quietly”, the receptionist said. An overweight man, small glasses pushed up on his forehead. He spoke quickly and the fingers tapping the desk betrayed his nerves.

“When did they leave?” Jaha asked. Kane admitted he would be nervous of the man too. Jaha was big, still in good form despite the extra pounds around his waist. Neither the heat nor the suit seemed to bother him. A man who embodied authority if Kane had ever met one. Working for the bureau, that was quite the statement.

“Around nine this morning”, said the receptionist. “Their room hasn't been cleaned yet, if you want to take a look.” Jaha and Kane nodded in unison. The receptionist picked out one of the keys hanging behind him on the wall and handed it to Jaha.

“The woman who called, is she still here?”

“Yes sir, Alice is over at the bar.”

Jaha nodded, a man of few words, and turned to Kane. “I'll take a look at the room, you go talk to her.”

Kane found the waitress wiping the bar counter. Two men were sitting by the window, coffee cups in their hands. Quiet country was playing from the speakers. The room smelled of fried bacon. The waitress, Alice, looked up as Kane sat down. Her customer service smile dropped as he showed her his badge.

“Can I get a cup of coffee?”

Alice served him without a word, poured a cup for herself as well. She leaned against the counter and smiled weakly.

“You're here about the call I made, right?” Kane nodded. “I can't be sure it was them, though. I just remembered seeing their pictures on the news and I thought it could be them, you know?”

The coffee tasted horrible. Kane pulled out the paper he always carried around these days and placed it in front of Alice. The most recent picture of Bellamy and Clarke, taken from their apartment. It wasn't the official one spread on the news, but one Kane had found tacked on the wall above their bed. They were smiling.

“Was it them?”

Alice picked up the photo. “Yeah. It was. I'm sure of it. It's hard to say from those mugshots, you know? The one on the news of the man, he looked much nicer in real life. More like this. And the woman, her hair was longer than that picture, you know? But yeah, it was them.”

“Good. Tell me everything you remember.” Kane folded up the picture and put it back in his pocket. “We know they arrived last night around seven and left today, a few hours ago. How did they behave? Did they say anything?”

Alice took a sip of her coffee, hesitated before she started talking. “They seemed so normal, you know? Nice, really. Ronnie made them burgers last night. He's our chef. They sat right over there, in the corner. Never spoke to anyone else that I could see. I brought them beers. The girl, Clarke, she thanked me. I remember, they were holding hands across the table and I noticed his knuckles were all torn up. Like what happens when you get in a fight, you know? But they were smiling and so calm, I didn't think anything of it.

Just thought they were a cute couple. They went to bed pretty early. It was this morning, I'd just come in for my shift and the radio was on. They were talking about a body, about how Blake and Griffin were still at large and I realized, they could've been here. So, I called you.”

“You did the right thing”, Kane said and stood up. “If you can think of anything else, call this number.” He placed his business card on the table. Alice picked it up, studied it and smiled wide. Kane nodded and returned to the lobby. His coffee was left unfinished. The receptionist stood up as Kane approached.

“The other agent's still upstairs. Is there anything more I can do?”

“Did they mention where they were going next?”

“No, sir, they didn't. They did drive towards the big road.”

“Thank you.”

Kane stepped outside. He had already forgotten how hot it was. With a sigh he stepped to the side and waited for Jaha in the shadow of the building. Somebody was already waiting for him.

“Clarke and Bellamy came through here, then.” The man waiting was in his late twenties, light scruff on his cheeks and a recorder in his hand. It was on.

“Wick”, said Kane. He would have liked the man if not for his efforts to portray Blake and Griffin as the 21st century's Bonnie and Clyde. It made them far too popular. “How did you know we were here?”

“A woman called me, Alice something? She had read my pieces on Blake and Griffin and wanted to give me an interview”, Wick said with a wide smile. “Hoping to get her minute of fame, I'd guess.” Giving away his irritation, Kane huffed and threw a glance over his shoulder. Had she called the police or the reporter first, he wondered. “I'd much rather get a statement from you, though.”

“No comment”, said Kane.

Wick huffed. “As usual.” He put away his recorder and turned around. “So, they got away again?” Kane nodded. This was an all too familiar conversation between them. “What's next?”

“Off the record. Unless somebody calls in with any tips, there isn't much we can do but wait for another body.” It was the truth, as hard as it was for Kane to admit. Bellamy and Clarke moved without a final destination; their victims were picked at random. There wasn't even a clear period of time between the murders. They seemed perfectly in control, though Kane doubted they were. There had been two months between the first two murders; only two weeks between the last ones. Bellamy was escalating.

  
  


*

  
  


The car roared underneath them as Bellamy passed another truck. Clarke waved at them and laughed. Her hair was whipping in the warm wind. The red convertible wasn't the most inconspicuous car they could have borrowed, but it was fast and fun. They had agreed that fun was something they needed.

In the driver's seat, Bellamy had his eyes on the road and a smile on his lips. Clarke trailed a finger along the tanned arm holding the wheel. There were bruises around his wrists, reminders of their night at the motel.

“Do you think Kane is there yet?”

Bellamy passed another car. “Probably, if the waitress actually recognized us and called it in.”

“She did”, Clarke said and played with one of his curls. His hair was growing longer. Clarke threaded her fingers through it, tugged at the nape. The car stayed in its line, but Bellamy glanced at her with mock irritation.

“We won't make it anywhere if you continue like that”, he said. Clarke wouldn't have minded, but they were on the run. Best to keep her hands to herself.

“So, where do you want to go?” she asked and pulled out a tablet from the glove box. “We could drive this road all the way to New Orleans. Hide in the bayou.”

“Let's not make it easy for Kane to find us”, said Bellamy. “We need to switch cars before they put out a BOLO for this one.”

“We crossed state lines. That should slow them down.” It took Clarke barely ten minutes to find an announcement for an old pickup truck on sale in Pontotoc. An hour and a half later they had left the convertible at a gas station and continued on foot the half a mile to the ranch. The farmer was a little surprised, but when Clarke paid in cash he wished them a happy journey.

The truck was painted a faded red, rusty around the corners. Nothing anybody would look twice at. That was the priority. As they climbed into the truck Clarke counted the rest of their money with a frown.

“Bell, we are going to have a problem if we don't get more cash soon”, she said and tucked the money away. They had been surviving on the money Clarke had pulled from her hedge fund before they left Pittsburgh. A few hundred dollar bills was all they had left.

“I could pick up a job in Florida. Maybe there's something along the way”, said Bellamy.

“I don't know if that's a good idea with our faces all over national television”, Clarke answered and put her feet on the dashboard. Bellamy rested his hand on her knee. “We'll think of something.” The sun was at its highest in the sky.

  
  


They stopped in Tunica and found a room to rent. The woman who owned the house was old and near-blind and had no idea that she was harbouring wanted criminals. Clarke felt sorry for her and paid more than what was asked. They would soon have more than enough for themselves.

“Have you ever done this before?” Clarke asked and glanced up from the tablet screen. Bellamy sat across from her, the local paper in his hands. Underneath the table his feet were restless, knee bouncing against the bottom of the table.

“Rob a bank? Yeah, I have”, Bellamy said. “Those days, you did as your gang leader told you to.”

“You never got caught?” Clarke asked and put down her tablet. It was impossible to concentrate. She could practically feel the restlessness radiating from Bellamy. He shook his head. Clarke walked over to him and hugged him from behind, finding his shoulders so tense they shivered. It had been two weeks since Memphis.

“Do you want me to..?” she asked. The afternoon sun was painting the room in gold. Bellamy nodded. Clarke took a deep breath and let go of him. The room smelled of clementines and lavender. Washed clothes hang over their heads. Clarke went over to the bed and pulled out his bag from underneath it. A tie and a belt: These she brought back with her. Bellamy had closed the newspaper and watched her with a closed expression.

“I can't concentrate when you're this twitchy and neither can you”, Clarke said. “And we need to concentrate if we are going to pull this off.” Bellamy was already reacting to the change in her tone: his feet were firmly planted on the floor. “Now, I am going to tie your hands together and I want you to kneel by my side. Be still and be silent until I say otherwise. Okay?” She could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.

“Okay.” Clarke allowed herself a smile.

“Good. Now take off your shirt and come over here. Hands behind your back.” Bellamy obeyed. The belt was old; easy to tie around his wrists. Clarke helped him down to the floor. She traced a finger over his chest. “Close your eyes.” Neither had been sure about the blindfold at first, but they had found that it helped Bellamy focus on his body, helped him relax and think less. Clarke carefully placed the tie over his eyes. “Now, relax.”

Clarke continued reading, but it was slow work. Every other minute she glanced down at the kneeling man beside her to make sure he had everything good. It didn't take long for the tension to leave his shoulders. His head was bowed; his chest moved steadily with calm breaths. Clarke read with a soft smile.

The room was turning to grey and the shadows had grown longer when she turned off the tablet.

“Good, very good”, Clarke murmured and caressed Bellamy's shoulder. Her smile grew fonder when he didn't startle. “C'mon, baby, stand up.” She steadied him with a hand on his side as he got up. The half-hard cock tenting his pants meant they both knew where this was going.

With care Clarke untied his hands and massaged his wrists. The belt was kinder on the skin than the rope. Then she took one of his hands and pulled him with her to the nearest wall. His arms cradled her head as she leaned against it and pulled him down for a kiss.

Against his lips she whispered: “You may talk now.”

Bellamy moaned. As Clarke tugged at his curls his hand caressed her breast on its way lower, underneath her skirt. Clarke helped him pull off her thong, not willing to interrupt the hungry kisses. There was a sense of urgency in the air. Clarke was sure if she didn't climax soon she would burst. His lips were hot against hers, his teeth sharp as his mouth moved to her neck. Clarke raised one leg so he could lift her up, back pressed against the wall, breasts against his bare chest. The scrape of the fabric made Clarke itch on the outside as she did within.

There was no shiver in his arms as Bellamy held her up. Not yet, at least. Her head hit the wall as she pulled back for air. Their harsh breaths filled the air and left no room for oxygen. Clarke reached down and grabbed his dick, guided it to her entrance. He made no move to push in and Clarke tugged off the blindfold.

“I want to do it.” Bellamy met her eyes with a confused look. With both her hands Clarke grabbed his face. “Rob the bank. I want to do it.” Time froze in that moment, Clarke realized. There was nothing but Bellamy. Bellamy was everything. His chin dipped and there was wonder in his eyes. Clarke surged in for a kiss at the same time as Bellamy eased inside her.

His thrusts were hard. Clarke clung to his shoulders, pulled him closer with nails digging into his back. She relished in the moans and grunts that tickled at her, unable to hold back her own. With every thrust she slid up the wall just a little bit more. There would be bruises over her back the following morning.

“Come, baby, come for me.” Her voice was barely there anymore, but Bellamy heard her. She held him as he quickened his pace and squeezed around his dick. It was almost too much: white spots were dancing behind her eyelids. Clarke pulled his head to the side, her grip on his hair unforgiving, and bit down on his neck. Around her she could feel him tense up as he came. He continued thrusting, but now the movements were slower. Clarke sucked at his neck until her lips tingled and his arms started quivering.

Clarke pulled back and brushed her thumb over the nasty bruise she had created. He winced when she pressed down on it. He would need the pain to stay grounded until they were out of this town.

Clarke hadn't realized how uncomfortable the position was until her feet touched the floor again and she straightened up. The tie lay discarded on the floor. The shadows enveloped them and Clarke listened to Bellamy's heavy breaths, allowed him a moment to recover. Her head was at peace but adrenaline still thrummed in her veins.

When Bellamy leaned back he met her eyes. His mouth quirked up into a smile as he fell down on his knees. Clarke let out a breathless gasp when he pulled her leg over his shoulder. With feather light kisses he made his way along her inner thigh and finally pressed one over her clit. Between Clarke's fingers his hair was soft, in disarray from her treatment. She leaned her head against the wall as his skillful tongue went to work. Bellamy pressed two fingers inside her and Clarke had to lock her knees so as not to fall. As he worked her legs started to shake. Compared to his warm mouth the air felt cold against her skin.

She came with a drawn-out moan that ended in a gasp. The moment Bellamy let go of her she slid down. Clarke felt the last ripples of the intense climax as she chased his mouth and claimed it in a kiss. Her lips felt numb and her right foot tingled as blood returned to it. His lips seemed to be a few beats after hers and Clarke smiled. He wasn't quite back to himself yet.

“Let's go to bed, baby. We'll watch a movie”, she said. They got up from the floor, both clumsy with stale legs. Clarke glanced outside: the sun was merely a blur of orange on the horizon. A few hours and total darkness would come.

  
  


Clarke could hear her heartbeat as clearly as their steps on the pavement. Her hand was sweaty around the gun. They were in Alabama: it hadn't been hard to find someone willing to sell them one without paperwork.

The bank would close in half an hour. They had done their research. As she walked into the bank Clarke didn't feel nervous. There was nothing more they could have done.

She held her handgun inside her coat. Bellamy walked beside her, one arm thrown over her shoulders. Nobody looked twice as they started queueing. There were maybe ten, fifteen customers waiting for their turn. Calm music was playing through the speakers.

Bellamy shielded her as she stepped up to the till and slid a note to the cashier. The man behind the counter seemed bored when he reached for it, but then his eyes widened. When he looked up Clarke flashed him the gun.

“Please”, she said and tried a kind smile. The cashier nodded and started counting out the bills, just fifties and hundreds, per the instructions on the paper. She pushed a bag over the counter. Once filled, the cashier handed it back.

“Thank you for your cooperation”, Clarke said. She could barely hear the words over the rapid beating of her heart. Bellamy took the bag and turned around with a civil nod. Clarke couldn't believe how easy it had been. Nobody had even noticed.

They were past the queues when the cashier started screaming. The sound made Clarke jolt and she made to run for the door. As if having read her mind, Bellamy grabbed her hand and forced her to continue walking.

“We're almost there”, he said. Three more steps and they would have been outside.

“Stop! Stay right where you are or I will shoot.” Clarke froze. Heart viciously beating in her chest she turned around with her hands in the air. There was a guard. He held a gun in his shaking hands, pointing it first at Bellamy and then at her. Beside Clarke, Bellamy moved. He pulled the gun from Clarke's pocket and pointed it at the guard. Finger on the trigger, his hand was steady.

“Get out.” Clarke didn't move. The guard was sweating. “Go.” The whole bank was in a standstill. With a deep breath Clarke started walking backwards. Her hand found the handle and she pushed the door open. She could hear a police siren getting closer. They didn't have much time.

“C'mon, B, we need to go!” she shouted and stepped out onto the street. That was when two shots rang out. Clarke's heart stopped and then rushed to life when Bellamy ran outside. He was still holding the gun, the bag of money over his shoulder. Together they ran across the street, through an alley to the car they had parked there.

“You drive”, Bellamy said and threw her the keys. Clarke didn't have time to ask. She jumped inside and started the car. Keep to the speed limits, Bellamy had told her. Nobody stopped them as they drove out of the town. Pulling on to the interstate Clarke let out a breath that morphed into a chuckle. The adrenaline was still rushing through her veins.

“We did it, Bell! I can't believe it”, she said and turned to him. Her face drained of colour as he pulled his hand out of his coat. It was red with blood. He was pale and his breathing was heavy. “Bell?”

“It's okay. The guard had horrible aim”, he said and pressed back down on the wound with a grimace.

“We need to stop. I need to look at it, bandages.”

Clarke took the next exit and drove into the woods, were they found a secluded road and pulled over. Bellamy had been silent the whole way. Clarke got the first aid kit from the trunk and ran over to his side.  Luckily the bleeding had stopped.  Clarke breathed out in relief and carefully pulled off the torn t-shirt from the wound. The pounding of her heart faded away as she started cleaning it.

“Is there an exit wound?” Please let there be an exit wound, please.

“No.”

“Shit.” Clarke didn't suggest a hospital. She knew not to, but... “I don't know how to remove the bullet. I can't – I don't know – I'm sorry”. She looked up. Bellamy's eyes were shut in pain. Gently she pressed the gauze over the wound.

“It's okay – ahh – I know someone. It's a long drive.” Clarke stood up and dusted off her knees. Bellamy eased his feet back into the pick-up.

“Lie down as best as you can, you need to get your feet up. If you go into shock... I'll have to take you to the hospital.” Clarke watched over him as he pulled himself further over the seat. She rolled the window open and closed the door. He put his feet out. Clarke returned to the driver's seat and turned the car on. “Think of something that makes you happy, okay?” she said and smiled for him. Bellamy met her eyes. He pushed himself up and put his head on her lap.

“Yeah”, he whispered. “Get back on the interstate, go east.”

  
  


It was just past midnight when Clarke heard the ocean. They had been driving ten hours straight. Bellamy had managed to stay awake the whole time. Relentless, Clarke had kept him talking, scared that if he became quiet that would be the end.

“The lighthouse”, Bellamy said. Clarke drove up to the tall building. Waves were pounding against the shore in the darkness. She stepped out of the car and went around to help him out. There was no light on at the top. The road had been nothing more than two tracks in a field.

“Are you sure?”

Bellamy nodded. He moved gingerly and winced as he got down on the ground. Clarke was by his side and pulled his arm around her shoulders. Together they walked to the lighthouse. It seemed abandoned: Clarke wondered whether Bellamy was up to date on his information. Still, she knocked. She knocked again harder.

Beside her Bellamy's breathing was strained and his face shone with cold sweat. He was leaning against her and Clarke was losing hope. Just then she could hear someone on the other side. The door was pushed open and she found herself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Bellamy? Clarke?” The shotgun was lowered, revealing a pale face that was mirroring the look on Clarke’s. Clarke couldn't help staring. Perhaps she had missed the signs: Bellamy had to have been in shock to suggest coming here.

“Murphy?”

 


	3. The Blood Is Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think we could get through one year without you almost dying?” Clarke said as she sat back on the bed. Bellamy chuckled and picked up his shirt from the floor. 
> 
> “You make it sound so easy”, he answered. It should be easy, Clarke thought and picked at her fingernails. They were as short as could be. Her hands had scrapes and cuts that hadn’t been there one year earlier. Bellamy reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. His skin made hers seem pale; his calloused fingers made hers look slender and fragile. She looked up to meet his eyes and found him smiling at her. “There’s no need to worry. Not now, at least. We’re safe here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Just back in time for the season to end in a week.
> 
> Title from Hozier's Cherry Wine.

_Four Hours Earlier_

Clarke ran. Her feet were loud against the ground, her breathing was heavy. Just a little longer, she thought to herself and pushed harder, ignoring the burning in her calves. Just a few steps. Clarke clenched her teeth and rushed up the hill, eyes on the ground so she wouldn’t trip over loose rocks. The wind smelled of the sea and tasted of salt.

On the top of the rocky outcrop she stopped. She raised her hands, placed them on her head, and breathed in deep. The sea was a stormy gray, clouds hanging low and promising rain in a few hours. The lighthouse was on the other side of the small bay. It looked as desolate as it had when Clarke saw it for the first time three weeks earlier. Gulls were circling the top.

When she returned, Bellamy would have lunch ready. He had insisted on taking over the responsibility of feeding the three of them. Murphy was a horrible cook; he had been surviving on frozen pizza and canned soup during his time in hiding. Clarke had done the cooking after their arrival, when Bellamy was still recovering, but managed to burn everything she put in the pan, too distracted to pay attention. Bellamy was better now, the surest sign of it his restless pacing in the evenings. Clarke had forbidden him from joining her on her runs. He was better, but not fully healed. A gunshot wound wasn’t something you shook off after a few weeks of rest and hot soup.

 

_Three Weeks Earlier_

“Murphy?”

Clarke was ready to turn around and make a run for it. It was night: they didn’t have to get far before the darkness would hide them. Murphy couldn’t be that good of a shot. She took a step back at the same time that Bellamy took one forward, letting go of her shoulder. He swayed where he stood and his face was pale, but he held Murphy’s eye.

“I need your help”, he said, voice low and rough from the effort it took to remain standing. His wound had started bleeding again and colored the hand he kept pressed over the bandages red. “Please.” Murphy’s gaze fell from where it had been fixed on Bellamy’s face to his bloody hand. The shock had long ago disappeared from his face, replaced by a scowl and a clenched jaw. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, but then he nodded.

“Get inside.” He lowered the shotgun and stepped back inside the lighthouse. “Try not to get blood everywhere.”

Clarke pulled Bellamy’s arm over her shoulders once more. Her knees buckled under his weight and with sheer force of will she managed to get them down the cramped staircase to a living room. Low ceilings, a kitchen island, a huge screen on a wall of exposed brick. On the last step Bellamy lost his footing and Murphy was there, surprisingly gentle as he supported the other. One fourth of the room was occupied by a pool table, upon which Murphy and Clarke now lay their patient. While Murphy stalked off to another room, Clarke grabbed Bellamy’s hand and searched for his gaze.

“Just keep breathing, all right?” she said and took deep breaths to help him pace his. Murphy returned with an age-old doctor’s bag, which he flung on the table and opened.

“Here”, he said and handed Clarke a pair of surgical gloves. Clarke gave Bellamy’s hand a hard squeeze before letting go. Murphy was none too gentle as he pushed her aside and reached for Bellamy’s shirt. Clarke’s heart was beating and she had to remind herself to keep breathing. Bellamy squeezed his eyes shut as Murphy started cutting through the bandages.

At the end of it all, there was blood everywhere: over the green fabric of the pool table; on the carpet underneath it; on Clarke’s clothes; on Murphy’s clothes and hands and arms and on his face. They were breathing heavily, as if they had just run a sprint. Bellamy had stayed awake through the whole operation, teeth clenched and chest heaving as Murphy dug the bullet out. Clarke had almost hoped he would pass out. She redressed the wound and Murphy went over to the kitchenette to clean his supplies, trailing droplets of blood in his wake. Bellamy seemed ready to pass out from pain and exhaustion. He rested his forehead on Clarke’s shoulder.

“You can stay here”, Murphy said and pulled Clarke out of her thoughts on infections and worst-case scenarios. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest and face expressionless. “For a while. Until he’s better.” His eyes moved to Bellamy, who didn’t react to a word spoken. “There’s an extra bedroom at the end of the hallway.” Murphy’s tone was clipped and he said nothing else before turning back and disappearing around the corner.

“Thanks”, Clarke said, too tired to wonder or question their current situation. “C’mon, Bell, let’s get you to a bed.”

 

_Three Hours Earlier_

The humid air made Clarke shudder and she started down the hill. There had been no path there before she started running her daily route. She had almost skipped her run today. Bellamy had woken her last night and she hadn’t been able to fall asleep again after that, instead lying in bed and listening to him pace the length of the hallway outside. Murphy didn’t keep a supply of chamomile tea, yet Clarke doubted it would have helped.

She quickened her pace, as if she could run away from her thoughts. Once it became clear that Bellamy would survive, time had slowed down to an excruciating pace. Every day was grayer than the previous with the approaching fall. Though Murphy allowed them to stay, he wasn’t a very hospitable host. Most of the days he locked himself inside his room. Sometimes Clarke could hear sounds coming from a TV, but most of the time it was quiet. When Bellamy started spending more hours of the day awake than asleep, Murphy started playing pool in the evenings. Most of the green fabric was now brown. They ate together, but the meals were quiet.

The lighthouse was quiet, and for the first time in months, Clarke was left alone with her thoughts. She was helping him, she rationalized, when the memory of Bellamy beating a man into the ground returned with startling clarity. They had all been criminals, pedophiles and rapists, she justified it, as she found herself drawing a picture of a lifeless body, the face too broken to be recognizable. They weren’t doing anything wrong. They were removing demons from the streets and keeping the demons in Bellamy’s mind at bay. But now there had been three weeks of calm and they were both getting restless. Clarke wondered whether she needed the thrill of the kill as much as Bellamy did. In the evenings, when Murphy was playing pool and Bellamy was reading, Clarke found herself searching for possible targets in the area. It worried her.

It worried her that she might not be in control anymore.

So she ran. She ran until her lungs hurt and her knees shook and her mind was empty. She took a shower and sat down by the kitchen island, which acted as their dining table and a bar counter. Murphy was there, poking through his salad. Bellamy placed a plate in front of Clarke with a smile and sat down. The oven had resigned after two weeks of warm meals, but no one had yet gotten around to fixing it. They ate in silence.

 

_Two Weeks Earlier_

Bellamy and Murphy were talking in low voices. Clarke tiptoed closer, careful not to step into the light shining through the crack between the door and the frame. Clarke had woken in complete darkness on the sofa, shivering from the cold and with an aching back. Someone had shut the lights in the living room and closed the TV. She was a few steps from the bedroom door and her bed, when she heard their voices. Until this moment, Clarke had seen Bellamy and Murphy exchange but a few words. Now, her curiosity got the better of her. She stayed quiet and listened.

“Better. Thank you, for everything. I don’t think I—”,

“Don’t. It’s all right.” Murphy continued in that raspy drawl of his. “I was getting bored in here by myself anyway. Almost drove myself crazy the first months, holed up in here.” He chuckled humorlessly. Clarke leaned in towards the light and glanced inside the room. Bellamy was sitting on the bed, back resting against the headboard. The bandages peeked out from underneath the covers pooled in his lap. Across from him, on the edge of the bed, Murphy studied his hands. Neither were looking toward the door. “Being a fugitive is a lonely business.” Murphy looked up from his hands at Bellamy, whose face was unreadable. “Though, I see _you_ found yourself some company. How did you manage to convince the pretty princess to drive around with you and murder people?”

Bellamy’s eyes flashed at that. Clarke could see his fist clench upon the covers. “Watch your language.”

Murphy grinned. “Or you’ll what?”

Clarke was ready to step inside and diffuse the tension in the room. She doubted either of them would have noticed if she entered, so fixed were their eyes upon each other. Then Bellamy breathed out and his shoulders sank. Clarke pulled back from the door as his eyes broke contact with Murphy’s. His voice was lower when he spoke.

“It helps. The… violence. But Clarke only chooses people who deserve it.”

“So you’re vigilantes? Doing the cops’ job for them?” Murphy teased, sarcasm weighing heavy on each syllable. “Well, that’s worked well for you two. I’m pretty sure I’m going to regret helping you.”

Clarke moved so she could see the two men again. Bellamy was sitting straight now, back barely hitting the headboard, and his eyes were honest in that very Bellamy-esque way that made it impossible to doubt him. “We’ll leave, if you want us to.” He touched a hand to the bandages, drawing both Murphy’s and Clarke’s eyes to them. “I’ll survive.”

“Or maybe they’d let me go if I turned you in”, Murphy continued, ignoring Bellamy’s proposal. Bellamy reached forward and grabbed his arm.

“Murphy…” Murphy stared at the hand, then shook it off and stood up. Clarke pulled back and pressed herself to the wall.

“Relax, Bellamy. _I_ ’m not a rat.” Clarke could picture Bellamy flinch at the insinuation. She doubted Murphy regretted his words. There were steps coming towards the door and Clarke started pulling back. “Anyway, I should get to sleep. I’ll just leave you—”,

“Murphy.” The steps stopped and so did Clarke. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I’m sorry.”

Murphy took his time before he answered. When he did, his voice strained with the effort to remain emotionless. Clarke swallowed and wondered what Murphy worked so hard to conceal. “No. You shouldn’t have.” Pain.  “Does the princess know?” Envy.

“No.”

“Figures.” Hate.

 

_Two Hours Earlier_

Clarke inspected Bellamy’s wound. The skin had healed: there was next to no bruising left around the beginnings of a scar. It still hurt occasionally, though Bellamy did his best to hide his discomfort. Clarke trailed her fingers across his stomach to the longer scar that had been left there by a knife. That wound was the reason they had met in the first place. She smiled and drew her hand back.

“Do you think we could get through one year without you almost dying?” Clarke said as she sat back on the bed. Bellamy chuckled and picked up his shirt from the floor.

“You make it sound so easy”, he answered. It should be easy, Clarke thought and picked at her fingernails. They were as short as could be. Her hands had scrapes and cuts that hadn’t been there one year earlier. Bellamy reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. His skin made hers seem pale; his calloused fingers made hers look slender and fragile. She looked up to meet his eyes and found him smiling at her. “There’s no need to worry. Not now, at least. We’re safe here.”

“We can’t stay here forever”, Clarke said and squeezed his hand. “We’re putting Murphy in danger every day that we stay here.”

“I don’t think he minds, no matter how much he complains”, Bellamy said and stood up, letting go of her hand in the process. “Besides, he owes me one for trying to kill me.”

Clarke lay down on the bed and leaned on her elbow. “Digging out a bullet from your side didn’t count?”

“We’ll be even when he digs out another.” Bellamy pulled a book from the sparsely filled book-case shoved into the corner. He read its back, but his hand rubbed at the scar left by the stab wound. Clarke stood up and walked over to him, then put her arms around him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“Still, I think we should leave soon”, she said. “I’m getting tired of this place and I know you’re too.” She could hear the air travel through his lungs if she pressed her ear between his shoulder blades. He sighed and turned around in her arms. She could feel his lips in her hair and felt a momentary regret for pressing the issue. If they stayed, they were safe. If they stayed, they remained alive.

“Yeah. You’re right.” Bellamy tipped her chin up and kissed her softly. “You do know I love you?” Clarke smiled into the kiss and nodded.

 

_One Week Earlier_

“I think I’ll go out for a run.”

Clarke looked up from her tablet with refusal in her eyes. Bellamy was pacing. He had lined the balls up on the pool table, made them scatter over the fabric with one hard shot and then abandoned the game. His hands were clenched around the cue stick hard enough for his knuckles to become white.

“No, you’re not”, said Clarke. She put her tablet away and walked over to Bellamy. By placing her hand on his she made him stop and meet her eyes. “What would you like for me to do?” She asked and gently pried the cue from his hands. “Murphy isn’t here. We can do whatever you like.” He had driven one town over to buy food and supplies to last a few weeks. They had at least an hour before he would be back.

“I – It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine”, Bellamy said and turned his eyes away. Clarke took his hand and led him to their bedroom. “Really, Clarke…”

“Quiet”, Clarke ordered. Bellamy complied. This still surprised Clarke: how she could get the confident, head-strong Bellamy to obey her commands if she pitched her voice a bit lower and clipped the words a little shorter. “I am going to give you a blowjob. You can come _after_ you’ve told me what you want. Okay?” She held Bellamy’s gaze until he nodded. Perhaps he hoped he could get away with not telling her; that she would be too distracted. Well, he underestimated her. “Sit down on the bed.” Clarke ordered and pulled her hair into a ponytail.

With deft fingers she unzipped his jeans. He was half-hard and grew harder as Clarke closed her fist around him. She looked up at him as she worked him to full hardness. His eyes were dark, full of anticipation. His clenched jaw made a smile tease at Clarke’s lips – he was so confident that he could hold up under her administrations. Clarke flicked out her tongue and held eye-contact as she leaned in and put her lips on his dick. She ran her tongue along the shaft, returned to the top and swallowed down. Bellamy gasped at the sudden intensity and moved his hand to her shoulder. Clarke allowed it.

Never letting him get close to the edge, Clarke worked her mouth fast and shallow, covering the tip of his dick with her mouth and toying with her tongue along it. Then she slowed down, took him in deeper, until she could feel him at the back of her throat. She swallowed and relished the moan it pulled from Bellamy; swallowed again to repeat the sound. Between fast and slow, shallow and deep, she switched, now and then pulling up to ask him if he was ready to talk. A blush had crept across his cheeks. His breathing had grown loud. Clarke’s left hand was pressed against his abdomen, hiking up his shirt so that she could with a glance see his muscles work.

And then: “I want you to hit me.”

Clarke stopped and leaned back, eyes wide and mouth still open. Bellamy’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

“You want me to what?”

“Hit me. I want you to… to hit me.” Clarke stood up and stared at him. Her mind was racing as she had an image of herself throwing out her fist, of it colliding with his cheek and splattering blood across the bed covers.

“No, Bellamy no”, she hurried to say. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, Clarke, not like that. I need – I need the pain. It feels good, Clarke, I promise, it will feel good.” He was looking at her now, eyes big and pleading. His dick was still hard, curved towards his stomach and smearing pre-come on his shirt. Clarke noticed his hands were shaking and reached for them. His words had scared her, but realization made her calm again.

“You want me to spank you?” she asked. Bellamy blushed and averted his gaze, but nodded. Clarke sat back on her heels and pulled the back of her hand across her mouth. They had never been sweet in bed: sex had always been accompanied by scratching and hair-pulling. One of them usually woke up with new bruises, whether made by hands or mouths or a hard surface that got in the way. Clarke knew Bellamy enjoyed the pain, but she had never thought of it more than that. The pain had always been a byproduct of the sex, never the focus of the act. Yet he was certain when he asked; a bit embarrassed, but not hesitant. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Yeah”, Bellamy answered. “Before – before you. Sometimes.” He glanced at her and tucked himself away. “I understand if you don’t want to. We don’t have to.” Clarke reached out for his hand before he could pull up his zipper.

“Okay. No, I want to. Or… I want to make you feel good.” Clarke swallowed and ventured a smile. “If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. Just – you have to promise to tell me if it’s too much? You have to tell me if you want me to stop?” Bellamy nodded. His smile was relieved and his eyes were eager as he studied her. Clarke took a deep breath and stood up. There had been blindfolds, restraints, biting and scratching, but never hitting. As she ordered Bellamy to remove his trousers, kneel on the bed and put his hands against the wall, Clarke felt no doubt. Together they had done things Clarke couldn’t have imagined a year earlier. In comparison, this felt easy. This was to help him, she thought, as she positioned herself behind him. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Bellamy.

 

_One Hour Earlier_

Clarke was searching for the right words. She wanted to tell their side of the story, but there were so many things to avoid. Details that could lead the police to the lighthouse and statements that could be used against them in court. Clarke’s finger hesitated over the touch screen. The court was a dangerous thought: it was something in a possible future. Clarke avoided thinking about the future, whatever it would include. The present kept her busy enough.

Writing to Wick was a way for her to deal with everything that had happened during that summer. She had contacted him after finding his column. He had written three entries by that time. The first included his objective: to present an alternate truth about the desperation of those that the capitalist government didn’t care about, about two people correcting the mistakes the judiciary system made, and above all, about true, once-in-a-lifetime love.

Now Wick’s column had eighteen entries, out of which five included words written by Clarke. Bellamy had been against it, but Clarke insisted their side of the story needed to be heard in case anything happened. She felt that Wick understood them, and reading through the comments on the columns, she found many others as well. The latest entry, published a week earlier, speculated on their whereabouts and Bellamy’s health. Clarke was writing to let Wick know the truth, so that he could tell the rest of the world.

“Busy?” Murphy drawled from behind her. Out of instinct Clarke hid the screen. It was uncanny how quiet Murphy could be when he wished to. The tilt to his mouth and the gleam in his eyes made it seem like he knew a secret, one of hers, that she wished to keep hidden and that he would reveal. It made Clarke feel uneasy.

“No”, she said and turned back to her screen, but his reflection stayed in it. “Did you want something? Your hovering is disturbing.” Clarke didn’t know what it was about the other that made her dislike him. These days he and Bellamy got along well and Clarke was glad that they had made up their differences. She had told Bellamy this several times.

“Far be it from me to disturb you”, Murphy said and plopped down at the other end of the couch. He stretched an arm out over the back of it and threw his feet up on the table. Clarke raised one eyebrow at him.

“Out with it.”

“So… I heard you two screwing last night.” Murphy grinned as Clarke felt the heat rise on her cheeks. Confident that Murphy was asleep, they had not been as careful as they usually were. Spanking Bellamy with her hand had been too exhausting for her, so last night they had tried the end of the belt. Though Clarke feared now that she had been the loudest, when a spent Bellamy had taken his time to eat her out.

“I don’t know how that’s any of your business”, she snapped and hid her blush behind the tablet.

“You’re right, it’s not”, Murphy said and put his feet back on the ground. He leaned his arms against his thighs and looked down at his hands. The chance in his posture made Clarke lower her tablet, if only to get a better look. The smirk had slipped off his lips, but when he noticed her watching it reappeared. “But I’m curious why you’re hitting him. It doesn’t seem like a nice thing to do.” There was something behind the smug look, and Clarke almost smiled when she noticed it. A hedgehog would display its spikes when it felt threatened, a snail would retract into its shell, and Murphy would hide behind sarcasm and a smirk.

“You don’t have to be worried about him”, she said. “I can take care of him”. Clarke found it wasn’t hard to smile at Murphy anymore, not when he had stopped pretending and sneered at her.

“That’s why you dragged him here with a hole in his side?” he spat at her and looked away. Clarke waited for more, knowing it was coming. She pressed down on her anger at the snipe and placed the tablet carefully on the table. Bellamy was in their room, hopefully immersed in a book. She didn’t want him to come out and find them arguing. Murphy turned back to her, hostility still shining through the emotionless mask that fit him worse than the smirk. “Though I suppose getting shot isn’t that bad, when you’re being mistreated every day.”

“I swear, Murphy, if you say one more word I will—”,

“Beat me and leave me without aftercare?” Clarke would probably have hit him, had his sentence not taken such an unexpected turn.

“Aftercare?”

Murphy scoffed and stood up. “You’ve got your tablet, look it up.” He had only taken a few steps away from her when a door banged shut and Bellamy entered the living room. He looked between the two of them, but before Clarke could explain he raised a hand.

“I don’t really want to hear. I’ll fix the oven and you two will stop fighting.” Clarke nodded. Murphy offered a sloppy salute. Bellamy rolled his eyes at that, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Murphy, where do you keep your screwdriver?”

“Only got one”, Murphy said, hand grabbing his junk, and both Bellamy and Clarke rolled their eyes. Murphy scoffed and marched past Bellamy into his room. He stopped just short of slamming the door closed behind him.

 “I think we have some tools in the truck”, Clarke said and got up. “I’ll get them.”

 

_Three Days Earlier_

Clarke hesitated for a second before pushing the coin into the machine and dialing her mother’s number. A brisk wind was blowing down the street, pushing pedestrians to walk faster and rattling the thin walls of the phone booth. Clarke was surprised phone booths even existed anymore, though now she was grateful for it. The tones beeped steadily over the line and Clarke sighed, ready to hang up, when Abby finally answered.

“Abigail Griffin”, she said in her professional voice. Clarke’s stomach dropped to her feet at the sound: she hadn’t realized how much she missed her mother until now. Clarke drew in a deep, stuttering breath.

“Mom?” she whispered.

“Clarke? Clarke, is that you?” Her mother sounded like something in between panic and relief. Clarke nodded and wiped at the corners of her eyes. It had been April, or maybe it had been May, when they last spoke. Even now, Clarke would have to be quick. She held her watch up and watched the seconds tick forward. Bellamy would have been furious with her for taking such a risk, but Clarke had seen crime procedurals. She knew they might be tracing the call.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me, Mom, it’s me.” Clarke barely got a word in as her mother started rambling and it was so uncharacteristic of her that Clarke laughed. She assured Abby that she was fine; she wasn’t hurt. She was safe.

“Honey, how can you say that? I’ve been watching the news. The last thing I heard was that you – you tried to rob a bank! And after that _nothing_ , nothing for a month. I’ve been so worried. Please, come home, Clarke, come home.” Clarke had known this was coming and she had prepared herself. Abby’s pleading would do little to change her mind.

“Mom. I’m not coming home. Not ever.”

Abby went silent, but only for a moment. “But honey, college is starting soon. I know it’s too late to apply to Harvard again, but you did get accepted to John Hopkins, and you deferred, but you could accept now and study there for a year. Darling—”,

“You think John Hopkins would accept a criminal?” Clarke could hear her mother draw in a sharp breath. “Mom, I can’t come home. Not after what I’ve done.”

“We can make things right”, Abby said. The smile fell off Clarke’s lips as her mother’s voice changed. It wasn’t that of a worried mother’s anymore, desperate to get her child home. It was calm, composed. Like it had been when they heard of Clarke’s father’s death. Clarke pulled back from the phone, distancing herself physically from the conversation to match her shift in feelings. “Jaha is on your side. He will testify for you, tell the court that someone with Stockholm Syndrome can’t be held accountable—”,

 “I do not have a syndrome”, Clarke interrupted. “I am doing the best I can to help the man I love. I need to go.”

And now the panic was back in Abby’s voice, but she held it on a tight leash. Clarke despised her for that and focused on the feeling. It made everything easier. “You're going to get yourself killed! How do you imagine you'll survive for even—”,

“Mom, I'm doing more than surviving, I'm _living_. This is a better life than just existing back at home. I am alive, Mom. Alive.” Clarke took a deep breath. “That’s all I wanted you to know. Good bye, Mom.” Clarke hang up before Abby could protest again and hurried back to her bike. Bellamy would have dinner ready soon. Her eyes were blurry as she started pedalling and she almost ran into someone. The wind pulled her hood down. She waved an apology to the old woman and continued down the road as fast as she could.

 

_Now_

They had hidden the pick-up truck among the wild bushes a bit off from the tracks leading up to the lighthouse. Heavy clouds hang in the sky and Clarke suspected it was only a matter of minutes before it started raining. Thunder rumbled along the shoreline. With her coat tightly wrapped around herself, Clarke held her head down as she walked down to the truck. The trunk creaked in protest as she pulled it open. The day after they arrived at the lighthouse, when it became clear that they were staying for some time, Clarke had carried all of their things inside. The only things left were a rusty wrench, a small hammer and a multi-tool, hidden in the back of the trunk. Clarke pulled all three things out and slammed the trunk shut.

It started raining and Clarke locked the car before turning back towards the lighthouse. Lights, approaching along the track through the forest, made her stop. She struggled to see as the rain fell heavier and the wind whipped around her. Between the trees she could make out two beams of lights, approaching at a steady pace and followed by more. There shouldn’t be any cars on the road. Clarke pulled herself back from the tracks and inched her way towards the lighthouse without taking her eyes off of the cars. When she realized they were police cars she started running.

Murphy had returned and stood leaning against the kitchen island, observing Bellamy, who was down on his knees in front of the oven. They looked up when Clarke ran into the room.

“What is it?” Bellamy asked and got up to his feet.

“There are five cop cars coming this way”, Clarke said and pushed the tools into Bellamy’s arms, before rushing past them to her and Bellamy’s room. “We need to get out of here, I just…” The gun was in the bottom drawer where she had hidden it. Murphy and Bellamy were pulling their coats on, Murphy with a bag between his feet.

“How did they find us?” Murphy growled and ran up the stairs. Clarke’s glance caught on Bellamy’s, but there was no time for guesses or doubts. Clarke pushed him in front of her and they ran after Murphy into the stormy afternoon.

The five cars had formed a half circle around the lighthouse. The three people rushing out of the building surprised them; there were shouts Clarke couldn’t make out over the howling wind. Murphy stood with his hands raised, the hammer Clarke had retrieved from the truck grasped in one of them. His backpack was pulled over one shoulder: it was his get-away bag, Clarke supposed. One she should have been smart enough to have as well. The headlights of the cars and smaller flashlights were pointed at them, along with guns held by steady hands.

“Put your weapons down and get on the ground!” Someone shouted. Clarke didn’t think, there was no time. She screamed and all the flashlights, the guns, sank for a second. Bellamy pulled Murphy back and they dashed down the slope, away from the lighthouse and the cars. Her feet were familiar with the uneven, rocky ground and Clarke sped up to them. There was shouting, but no guns were fired. The heavy thuds of running feet followed them. Clarke was half a step behind Bellamy when a shot was fired and Murphy shrieked of pain before tumbling to the ground. Bellamy looked back and hesitated, but Clarke grabbed his hand and ran past him. They couldn’t stop. All was lost if they stopped.

Clarke steered them along the cliffs. Neither glanced back, though they could both hear their followers. Another shot was fired and Clarke could have sworn it grazed past her cheek. This time she heard the command.

“Stop!”

When Bellamy stopped, her grip on his hand pulled her to a halt with him. He let go of her hand and raised his. There was an apology in his face as he glanced at her before turning around. His skin had drained of all colour; his wet locks were plastered against his forehead. Clarke turned around to face Kane. He had a gun levelled at Bellamy. Three officers stood behind him, all with their pistols pointed at the two runaways.

“It’s enough, Bellamy”, said Kane. “Put down the wrench. Clarke, put your hands up.” Clarke obliged quicker than Bellamy, whose numb fingers loosened their grip of the tool one at the time, as if he was performing a countdown. “C’mon now. Over here, Jaha!” Another agent ran up to them, a man with an imposing frame and a familiar face.

“Clarke, you’re safe now”, said Jaha. He didn’t even look at her as he spoke, eyes and gun fixed on Bellamy. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” He addressed the other officers: “Do not point your guns at her!” The officers hesitated for a second, but obeyed. It was all that Clarke needed. She pulled the gun out from her jeans and shot blindly at the group. She reached for Bellamy’s arm and gripped it as hard as she could.

“Jump!” she screamed and pulled him to the precipice. The sea was roaring beneath them. Bellamy’s hand closed around hers: it was warm, despite everything. One step and then a leap and a free fall, gun shots and screams quickly fading out somewhere above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a comment if you enjoyed the read. I can also be found on tumblr at http://thetamburlaine.tumblr.com/
> 
> Strength to all to get through the series finale!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought. The tone is clearly darker than in part 1, which is why the rating has gone up. There is also going to be some POV changes, but the story will still be told mainly from Clarke's POV.  
> At the moment, this prt is looking to be six chapters, but that may change.
> 
> If you wanna, you can come and say hi on tumblr at http://thetamburlaine.tumblr.com/


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